No offence, I hope, brother?
SIR WIL. 'Sheart, sir, but there is, and much offence. A pox, is
this your inns o' court breeding, not to know your friends and your
relations, your elders, and your betters?
WIT. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as short as a
Shrewsbury cake, if you please. But I tell you 'tis not modish to
know relations in town. You think you're in the country, where
great lubberly brothers slabber and kiss one another when they meet,
like a call of sergeants. 'Tis not the fashion here; 'tis not,
indeed, dear brother.
SIR WIL. The fashion's a fool and you're a fop, dear brother.
'Sheart, I've suspected this--by'r lady I conjectured you were a
fop, since you began to change the style of your letters, and write
in a scrap of paper gilt round the edges, no bigger than a subpoena.
I might expect this when you left off 'Honoured brother,' and
'Hoping you are in good health,' and so forth, to begin with a 'Rat
me, knight, I'm so sick of a last night's debauch.
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